


wolf & i

by miriya



Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Banter, Dirty Talk, Fluff, M/M, Porn, saigiri, unearthed ancient drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: As for myself, I am splintered by great waves.The long exhale.  A pair of drabbles for the lovely parlemora.





	wolf & i

**i. further from the shore**  
(three wishes for you as the tide turns)

Saitou isn't quite sure what he thinks of the ocean. He's always liked water well enough, learned to swim in the sluggish bends of the Sumida as a small child, splashing amongst the reeds and minnows under the watchful eye of his older brother. The texture of saltwater, however is vastly different -- oddly light, almost slippery; it makes his skin feel slick and strange and alien.

He dips his head and surfaces a moment later, pushing the hair from his face as he glances around, blinking against the glare of sunlight off clear green-blue water, a glittering, wind-whipped field of diamonds caught in the narrow embrace of the bay. A hand lifts just enough to shade eyes gone narrow with apprehension. Saitou turns, huffing, and paddles back toward the shore.

And then his head disappears beneath the waves in a splash of water and a toss of dark hair.

A few beats later he comes up, sputtering and kicking and cursing in ways his comrades never would have believed, epithets as foul as they are creative -- the sort of thing that would make the crudest of the lowborn blush, at least a little. (Saitou can be terribly inventive when the mood strikes, though his timing is often regarded as atrocious.) 

Behind him Amagiri surfaces, looming and pale, unbound hair slicked back against his scalp, trailing in chestnut swirls like seaweed at his back.

"If you're trying to kill me," Saitou's teeth are bared over his shoulder, his eyes dark in the way that Amagiri has learned to recognize as the face of injured dignity, "there are easier ways to go about it." Amagiri's immediate answer is to lower his head, partly an act of contrition, but also to hide the smile threatening to blossom; there's something endearing in the way Saitou's eyebrow twitches in his most incensed moments. This might be one of those if not deflected properly, but Amagiri has learned.

He did not drag this quiet wolf all this way to the coast to argue, after all -- Amagiri is a man of harmony, above all things.

"Hajime-kun," he says, his voice at home in the lull of the tide, hands slipping underwater like fishes to find the slender curve of Saitou's back, "if I meant to kill you, you would know." He smiles faintly.

Saitou twists in the water, eyeing him warily, but they both know the storm has passed.

"Is this suitable?" It's a strange way to phrase it, but Amagiri is a strange man, a subtle myth in this land of humans, well-suited to this new era of reluctant peace despite the occasional archaism. He is slippery and elusive, yes -- but tied, it seems, to this last vestige of a group of extraordinary men.

Saitou is quiet for a moment, treading water as he considers the question. Amagiri, as usual, is not asking just one. "It is," he says at last, and can't help but snort quietly at the way the skin around Amagiri's eyes crinkles as he smiles.

"Come," Amagiri says, and then slips beneath the water with little more than a ripple, making for the rocky edge of the bay. Saitou pauses, enough to let the instinctive bristling at the oni's (however off-handedly) imperious command pass. He has no reason to object, and so he does not, and while his strokes are not as smooth he does not lag far behind.

When Amagiri surfaces, Saitou turns cool, dark eyes in his direction, question obvious in the tilt of his head, the slightly apprehensive look he gives him. But no answers are forthcoming; instead, Amagiri reaches out to tug Saitou closer, molding their bodies together under calm water. Amagiri's toes curl against a shelf of slick stone, testing, quietly amused by the way the sun has turned Saitou's pale shoulders and neck a surprising shade of pink. "How well can you float?" He murmurs into the shell of a sun-reddened ear, nosing aside damp hair, hands wandering like they'd somehow forgotten the secret bends and hollows of this sleek, slender body so close to his own.

"Well enough," Saitou says, and his voice is wary.

Amagiri's answering smile is cherubic. "Perfect."

 

 **ii. epicurists**  
(take away every breath)

"Do you like it?" That voice is relentless, a bone-deep rumble Saitou associates with churning gravel and mudras and the drag of the tide, heavy and inexorable. Perhaps that makes it all the more exciting, to know it thus: hot breath into the damp shell of his ear, rolling across tender skin where neck meets jaw -- the almost-sacred drawn low, a suggestive stain hidden on the sleeve of a fine kimono. He shivers, hips moving of their own accord as his head falls back against a wide shoulder, panting something incomprehensible.

A quiet growl. "No, I want you to watch this. Watch, Hajime, as I do this to you." Amagiri drops the honorifics when they're like this, some small part of Saitou's mind observes, and he makes a quiet sound of protest as his head is nudged forward with the prod of a thick shoulder, an aggressive nip against the curve of his neck. 

And he does look, dark eyes heavy-lidded, his gaze traveling down the planes and curves of chest and belly to where Amagiri's huge, slick fist is curled around his cock, keeping a rhythm so slow and measured Saitou knows it's meant drive him mad. Amagiri has become rather good at this, dismantling his defenses so easily. Has always been, he supposes, if he's feeling particularly honest with himself.

"Well?" Amagiri's voice rumbles against his cheek. The oni -- still fully dressed -- is pressed against Saitou's narrow back, legs spread enough to accommodate the man between them, his bearded chin hooked over Saitou's shoulder, presumably to observe as well. Saitou flushes at the thought, too aroused to be embarrassed but close enough to remember the feeling. "So pale ... but not there, are you? Look at you, wolf. So hard, so _heavy_ , right here in my hand." He punctuates that with a squeeze, and Saitou can't contain the quiet whimper that escapes him.

(And really, it's impossible to be objective about it; Saitou is a modest individual to the core, and for some reason this fact seems to have set Amagiri on some sort of crusade to scandalize Saitou as much as possible. Which makes absolutely no sense, he thinks, since Amagiri is just as quiet and unassuming in any other situation, capable of absolutely unfathomable restraint. He has, at some point in the recent past, resigned himself to the belief that oni are simply beyond human comprehension, this one more than any other.)

It is a little fascinating though, a heady assault of sight, sound and smell that threatens to overwhelm his tenuous control.

"It's good," Amagiri rumbles, tracing the curve of Saitou's ear with his tongue, breath hot and heavy and immediate; Saitou squirms against him, hands rhythmically fisting against Amagiri's thighs, almost cat-like. "It's good, seeing you like this for me. This strong wolf, shaking in my hands, all undone. It's perfect, Hajime."

It's too much, even for Saitou. He's hypnotized by the way the dark head of his cock is visible for only a heartbeat before disappearing inside that fist, the way the tendons of Amagiri's wrist bunch and relax with each stroke, the raw scratch of wiry hair against his neck as he sucks bruises into pale, tender skin.

"After this, I'm going to take you, Hajime. Would you like that?"

Saitou thinks he would.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had these hanging out in the gdocs cloud since, uh, August 2011. Feelin' nostalgic as heck now, oh my gosh.


End file.
